


Acceptance

by mousaerato



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Desperation, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Loneliness, One-Sided Relationship, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 05:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousaerato/pseuds/mousaerato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of growing up and becoming a hero is taking responsibility for the choices that shape what you become.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acceptance

SO WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW?  
What do you mean “what am I supposed to do now?”  
You keep killing – or trying to kill – every single person who’s ever tried to help you.  
You’d kill me if you could, wouldn’t you?  
JUST. HOW DO I PLAY THIS GAME.  
You know what, kid? For a while I almost felt bad for you.  
EXCUSE ME?  
Being a cherub and growing up with all those rules that have no discernible purpose. It must be hard and you must think no one understands.  
HOW DO I WIN THIS GAME, VOICE IN MY HEAD?  
You’re going to have to work around the fact that you shot yourself in the foot. Well, actually you chewed it off, but the statement still works.  
GET TO THE POINT! I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS.  
Oh, you have all the Time in the world. It’s Space you don’t have any of.  
STOP TALKING IN RIDDLES. AND GIVE ME SOMETHING I CAN WORK WITH.  
Your Space player is dead. Your Space player is dead and you have killed her.  
What will become of you, the destroyer of destroyers?  
It’s up to you. Figure it out.  
I’m leaving before you get any other homicidal ideas.  
FUCK YOU!

                You stand at the terminal, hands shaking with frustration and index talons sore – that new keyboard sure is killer on a guy’s sole typing digits. What now? Think, dammit, think! Sure, it isn’t your strong suit – it was always more that harping shrew’s thing – but this is your quest and yours alone, so you’ll have to...figure it out.

                There’s nothing here but old shitty statues and a clown that – for some reason – is still alive. He shudders, hacking up purple blood, and tries to give you a gift. His teeth are hideous and mangled, but he’s trying to _smile_ for you. You should fucking kill him; he is the least important creature you’ve ever met.  
                You take the green, glowing box and shoot him. He stays down, but you know he’s still kicking. You thought that maybe that would shut him up, but it didn’t. Whatever – less contemplation, more orchestration.

                The smug, black-texted asshole said to plug a power cord into something. Right? This green box looks like it be a “power source.” Of sorts. You work around some wires, frustratingly getting your skin cut up and burned a few times, before you find a cord that works. You plug it in, but you still have no idea what to do.

                The green box hums and glows a familiar, lime hue. How much you hate it, how you wish you could destroy the very shade from existence. It is vile and hideous, just like your “sister” was. She was the complete opposite of you, which is to say she was stupid, useless, and inefficient. You’re so glad you never have to deal with her again.  
                You fiddle around with the control tower, and you can’t seem to get anything to work. That damn clown taps at your shoulder on a few occasions, but you shoot him at point blank range. This is _your_ mission, not his, not _hers,_ and dammit, you’ll figure it out. This is your challenge, right?

* * *

                It’s been a month. If there’s anything you know, it’s the passage of time. For some reason, that damn clown still isn’t dead despite the blood pooling underneath him, but he’s finally relented to stay at a safe distance and let you do your thing. Which you have, you might proudly add. You’ve been standing here at this terminal to figure out its mysteries, sleeping soundly and dreaming on a purple moon, then waking up again to work at it a little more.

                This morning, the fraudulent troll says something about a laptop. You shoot him again – why would you need a laptop?! You’ve got the apex of technology at your fingertips, after all. You just need to...take some more time to figure it out, is all. Is this human or troll technology? You wish you had a guide for it. Cal had some kind of book on it, but books are stupid. She didn’t even really _need_ the tome – she had the damn thing memorized. Now she’s got all those pathetic, xenophilic memories locked away with her ghost. Or whatever she is now. If anything at all.  
                Two weeks later, you notice that the lime-colored power source has a place for a second plug. You take the laptop from your sylladex and...plug it in. The clown honks in approval like some kind of proud parent (whatever a parent is), and you shoot him again. He lays there in his fluids and smiles. Fucking creepy.  
                This machine isn’t as intimidating – wait, you mean _stupid_ – as the big terminal that kept singeing you when you messed with its wires and parts. You can _use_ this! And it’s got enough power to run forever. If you needed it to do that.

                When you type on the laptop, you notice the terminal reacts, and you let out a triumphant laugh. _You knew you could do it! You just needed to...put your mind to it._ The clown applauds; you flip him off. Forget shooting him for now – you’ve got some work to do.

                Cal’s chat client isn’t nearly as awesome as yours, but you log into it anyway.  Finally, you’ve got a source to the outside world, and an amplifier. You can figure this out. You need...Space, right? One of those stupid kids has got to know how to help you. One of them’s the key to all this. You’re sure of it.

                You look through your sister’s files – she’s dead, after all, so her privacy means jack shit – and find little profiles on each of her favorite “friends.” You open the one about the Dirk human first. If anybody knows how to get shit done, it’s him. He can help you figure out this whole “space mystery” thing. Right? He’s a bro, so of course he’ll help you. Yeah.

                The file says nothing about Space. It features a rather unflattering picture of him in bright pink “God Tier” garb (whatever that means – it’s not like you paid attention to her rants) with orange wings. It explains in her light gray text: “dirk strider, prince of heart. known by the chUmhandle timaeUstestified. derse dreamer. simUltaneoUsly awake as his waking and dreaming selves. shows signs of major fragmentation across reality. Uses bladekind, pUppetkind, and, “for irony,” fancysantakind. ^u^”

                Not a Space player. Shit. You go to the next file – “Roxy :”

                “roxy lalonde, rogUe of void. known by the chUmhandle tipsygnostalgic. derse dreamer. able to traverse dream bUbbles in the void as her dream self. blacks oUt session from external viewers (oh no! unu). Uses fistkind and riflekind. (love her!!!!!!!!!!!)”

                Not a Space player. _Fuck._ Wait – Cal was a Prospit dreamer. Maybe...maybe one of the other two morons could help you? Ugh. But it’s better than being here, you guess. Besides. You could totally scare them into doing whatever you want. Next file.

                “jake english, page of hope. prospit dreamer.”

                You’re onto something! You can feel it! Fuck that black text guy, you knew you could do this by yourself.

                “nearly powerless to begin with—“

                _Fuck._ That fucking piece of shit. Just when he could have redeemed himself by being useful. You close the file and go to the next tone. Maybe the cake bitch is the one you need. Wait. Not need. Want. Could use. Something like that. _Yeah._

“jane crocker, maid of life. prospit dreamer.”

                You’re onto something good. You can feel it. The clown honks a few times like he’s met the bitch.

                “known by the chUmhandle gUtsygUmshoe. able to heal woUnds—“ _Yes!_ You could get her to fix up—

                “on herself.”

                This whole team of kids is useless, you swear.

                You’re the Lord of Time – you can figure this out. You go through Cal’s game files, and manage to find something called “The Scratch:”

                “Under certain circUmstances wherein a session becomes Unwinnable, a team may opt to scratch their session. this activates a hard reboot of the entire session with different starting parameters, so that the session spawned may become winnable.”

                That sounds promising...

                “the constrUction for activating the scratch is always on the planet of the Hero of Time.”

                _Yes!_ Finally something you can do! You mean...yeah. You can make shit happen now.

                “the hard reboot, Unless the players find a way oUt, wipes the players from existence.”

                You mean...you could figure it out. You guess? You got this damn terminal working after all. You keep reading.

                “the scratch mUst be execUted Using the qUills of echidna from the denizen of the team’s hero of space.”

                God. Fucking. Dammit. All. You’ve only got _half_ of what you need to make an exit plan work? The kids can’t even help you – not even the dumb bitches or the moron in the short shorts.

                You play with the terminal for another week. Still no messages from the black text guy – the bastard. What a waste of space.

                Eventually, you return to Callie – you mean, _Cal’s_ laptop -- and play around with it. There’s lots of files of her disgusting “trollsona,” fanfics that make you red in the face, and more information about those four kids. They should be in their session now, like you are. Too bad none of them are good enough to help you.

                There’s a file about ghosts, which you read with feigned interest. Something about dream bubbles? A way that players can still exist in some form? Whatever. It is stupid.

* * *

                Another month passes and you’re still no closer to victory. You’re almost starting to miss the voice in your head.  This isn’t really what you wanted. Not at all. There’s not even anything to destroy or fuck up.

                You sure have a lot of time on your hands now that Cal is dead and gone. Another two weeks pass, and you think you might hate her more dead than you did alive. At least then you had a reason to get up in the morning and plan. You at least had someone who could play chess. Now all you’ve got is a laughing purple clown, a quiet planet, and some interconnected, intergalactic signal booster with no clue what to do with it. The alarms on it look loud enough to wake the dead, though.

                Another week passes, and you get an idea. You’re officially going crazy. You get on Cal’s laptop, log in using her program again, and type, noticing the communications tower become alight with your words and hum loudly as you work.

\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] began cheering uranianUmbra [UU] \--

uu: GuESS WHO HAS YOuR LAPTOP. “SIS”.  
uu: “SPOILERS”! IT’S ME.  
uu: I KNOW YOu’RE STILL OuT THERE.  
uu: THE MuSE OF SPACE. TAKEN DOWN BY SOME STABS?  
uu: I CALL BuLLSHIT. YOu’RE A CHEATING TRICKSTER AND YOu ALWAYS HAVE BEEN.  
uu: I KNOW YOu CAN HEAR ME.

                You wait a few hours until you fall asleep at the laptop. When you wake up, you try again.

uu: CAL. YOu’RE SOMEWHERE IN THIS FuCKING PLACE.  
uu: WE HAVE SOME SERIOuS ISSuES TO DISCuSS.  
uu: SuCH AS. FIRST OF ALL. WHY MY PLANET IN THIS GAME SuCKS HORSE DICK.  
uu: YOu LYING FRAuD. YOu TOLD ME THIS GAME WOuLD BE AMAZING.  
uu: THAT WE WERE BOTH “SPECIAL”.  
uu: SO. uNLESS YOu WERE LYING AGAIN. YOu OWE ME AN EXPLANATION.  
uu: SO GET OVER HERE. AND START TALKING TO ME.

                The clown honks at you. Is he trying to answer your message? He’s not Cal, so you give him another round of bullets.

uu: THERE’S THIS IDIOT MINSTREL FOLLOWING ME.  
uu: YOu KNOW ABOuT HIM. RIGHT?  
uu: WHERE’S THE FILE ON HIM. HRM?  
uu: I SWEAR. I WILL DOuBLE MuRDER YOu IF YOu DON’T COME OVER HERE.

                Shit. Why did you write that? That was stupid!

uu: I MEAN.  
uu: YOu NEED TO GET OVER HERE.  
uu: YOu SAID YOu WANTED TO BE A HERO. RIGHT?  
uu: HOW CAN YOu BE A HERO. WHEN YOu ARE HIDING FROM ME? LIKE A COWARD.  
uu: COWARDICE DOESN’T SuIT A MuSE.  
uu: SO GET OVER HERE. AND FuCKING PLAY THIS GAME WITH ME.

                Another day passes. There is no response, no change in the sky above you. This is the longest you’ve gone without anyone to talk to, and it doesn’t make any sense. The control tower amplifies the signals, and if that black texted moron was telling the truth, anyone and everyone should be able to hear you.

uu: IF ANY OF YOu ARE CONCEALING HER.  
uu: YOu NEED TO STOP DOING THAT. RIGHT THE FuCK NOW.  
uu: SHE IS SuPPOSED TO BE HERE. WITH ME.  
uu: SHE IS MY COPLAYER. NOT YOuRS.  
uu: THAT WAS OuR AGREEMENT. IN THIS GAME.  
uu: WE BOTH SAID WE WOuLD PLAY. AND NOW YOu’RE KEEPING HER AWAY FROM HER OBLIGATIONS.  
uu: WHERE IS SHE?

                You open up Cal’s drawings and play them on the amplifier, sending the pictures far and wide across time and space.

uu: SHE MIGHT LOOK SOMETHING LIKE THIS.  
uu: IN CASE YOu WEREN’T AWARE. THAT YOu HAD SOME HANGER-ON HIDING AMONGST YOu.  
uu: BRING HER BACK HERE.

Another day passes. You can’t even leave without that quill.

uu: CAL.  
uu: CALLIE. WHATEVER YOu WANT TO BE CALLED.  
uu: YOU HAVE TO COME BACK HERE.  
uu: HOW AM I SuPPOSED TO HAVE A COMPETITIVE GAME. IF YOu AREN’T AROuND?  
uu: YOu’RE CHEATING. AND WHILE I KNOW THAT’S YOuR “THING”. DOING IT LIKE THIS DOESN’T SuIT YOu.

                Nothing happens. Your battery pack starts to look dim.

uu: CAL. “SIS”.  
uu: THIS MESSAGE IS GOING EVERYWHERE POSSIBLE. FOR YOu.  
uu: SO DON’T THINK YOu CAN ESCAPE. IT’S LIKE THE MILES.  
uu: AND YOu KNOW WHAT I SAY. ABOuT THE MILES.  
uu: REMEMBER THAT? HAA! HAA! HAA! HAA!  
uu: I AM MuCH FuNNIER THAN YOu.  
uu: BuT I WILL SAY. SOME OF YOuR WORDS ARE AMuSING. AT TIMES.  
uu: LIKE ALL OuR BANTER ABOuT THIS GAME. FuCKING FuNNY.  
uu: WE COuLD EVEN “EXCHANGE THEORIES”. IF YOu CAME BACK.

                You fall asleep again. You’re actually starting to lose track of time. You’d go back to your “room,” but this...this is the closest thing you have to any way to get her back. So you can start your game, of course.

uu: LOOK AT THIS. I’M STARTING TO SOuND LIKE YOu.  
uu: WITH THESE VERBOSE FITS OF WORD VOMIT.  
uu: MuST BE FuNNY. ISN’T IT?  
uu: IT FEELS LIKE OLD TIMES. YOu WOuLD SEND ME MANuSCRIPTS. AND I WOuLD GAZE AT YOuR DRAWINGS. WITHOuT YOuR CONSENT.  
uu: THEIR ACCuRACY IS POSITIVELY OBSCENE.  
uu: I MEAN.  
uu: THEY SuCK AND THEY’RE AWFuL.  AND LEWD.  
uu: YOu PROBABLY AREN’T EVEN DEAD.  
uu: I BET YOu’RE TAKING A NAP ON THAT GAuDY GILDED MOON RIGHT NOW. JuST TO PLAY WITH ME.  
uu: I AM NOT FALLING FOR IT.  
uu: CAL. GET BACK OVER HERE. WITH YOuR “BROTHER”.  
uu: YOu LEFT YOuR COSTuME AND  MAKEuP HERE. YOu REALLY THINK YOu CAN GO AWAY WITHOuT THOSE?

                You realize you don’t have much power left. You would need a much stronger source to provide good, green energy for this thing to reach to space.

                Like a Muse.

                _You’re screwed. You’re fucking screwed._ You can’t even do what you’re supposed to do, can you? Fuck her, fuck her for being weak, and fuck her for not standing up to you. She’s supposed to be some great hero, right? Some hero she is. And how can she expect for you to be a leader if she won’t come back and listen to you?

                You type out a message, knowing the laptop’s about to die. Ultimately, you don’t send it, deciding to leave it there as text on your screen. Obviously this whole construct was a red herring, designed to keep you from your actual goals. Fuck your sister, and fuck that black texted guy for trying to trick you, especially after you were so honest with him. You’ll figure out another way to win your game, without Space. Maybe you’ll just go off and destroy it all for the fuck of it. You’re supposed to be a master class, if Cal was telling the truth. You can handle this.

                As you walk away, you see that damn clown playing with the laptop. You see him raise a hand to press a key, and you shoot him once in the hand. You don’t know if it stopped the message, and it really doesn’t matter. It’s not going to change anything now – it’s up to you to make this game work.

uu: CALLIOPE. I NEED YOu. HELP.


End file.
